Potato Pizza
by Artemis1000
Summary: Germano. Germany and Romano are set up by their bosses for an EU feel-good PR stunt. Romano isn't such an awful date, if you don't mind being stabbed to death with the dinner knife. No Germanys or dinner knives were harmed in the making of this fic. Smut.
1. If this is peace I don't want to know

Content Advice: Smut, though nothing explicit

**Potato Pizza**

Chapter 1: If this is peace I don't want to know what war is like

Romano stabbed his rump steak and watched the blood flow out of the tiny puncture wounds with a darkly satisfied scowl.

Germany flinched with the knowledge that there was a 99,9% probability that he was pretending the rump steak bore his face. Or, considering their particular situation, maybe he was pretending it was a wholly different, more sensitive body part of his. Germany pressed his legs together.

He wished the bosses hadn't sent them to an English restaurant.

No.

He wished there was no need at all to send them to any restaurant, though making it an English one was just asking for Germany to be maimed. He wondered briefly if he had done anything to his chancellor that warranted getting stabbed to death with blunt cutlery.

All things considered, Germany supposed he should consider himself fortunate.

When Prussia had tipped him off that his boss was trying to set him up, they had both been convinced it would be with France. It made sense, politically. It had also caused Germany a nervous breakdown and sent Prussia flying off the handle from jealousy. Fortunately, the misunderstanding had been resolved before Spain could chase him with his giant axe.

As far as political relationships went, Italy wasn't a bad choice. It was the tenth biggest economy in the world, a member of the G8 and was recovering its international reputation quite nicely after the unfortunate bunga bunga debacle. There was the debt crisis and the downgrading of its credit rating, but that didn't necessarily disqualify Italy as a partner. However, it was the root of all evil.

The bosses had called it a "confidence-building measure" and dropped pointed hints that it would behoove responsible, dutiful nations like them well to show the world that the eurozone was united.

Political lingo translated into plain speech, they had been told to suck it up and act their age; no one gave a damn about their grudges when the world economy was at stake. From what Italy had told him, Romano had thrown a monumental temper tantrum, which had been quieted by ominous remarks of "too big for a bailout."

Germany's boss had never outright told him what exactly this "show of unity" was supposed to entail and as far as Italy knew, Romano hadn't received any such orders, either. Apparently, the bosses of the 21st centuries considered themselves too civilized to whore their nations out.

They didn't need to. If there had been any doubts left, the fact that they had been sent on a dinner date would have sufficed to fill in the blanks.

"Ch… chigi!" Romano dropped his fork, a piece of rare steak still skewered on it. It hit the knife with a resounding clatter. He glared at the red juice seeping onto his plate. To the casual observer, he looked merely furious, but Germany had spent the last ninety years being best friends with his brother. He took note of the familiar creasing of the forehead and of the way his lips were pressed together in a way he knew too well to mistake it for fury. Romano was trying his hardest not to cry.

Germany returned his gaze to his plate with all due haste.

Maybe he had been uncharitable in his assessment. He wasn't necessarily a bad choice on a personal level, either. Romano was a stern man, he didn't share his brother's penchant for silliness and the fact he was here proved that Germany had underestimated his sense of duty. If you were kindly inclined or went by the name of Spain, he supposed you might call his bluntness refreshing. In the past, nations had wed under less auspicious circumstances and they wouldn't even have to wed.

It wasn't all that bad; he could be getting married to Greece. The last time he and Greece had been sat down to talk it out, the man had sent his cats on him.

"Damn it! If you keep ignoring me, I'm going to leave! …fucking waste of time!"

Italy Romano wasn't a bad choice… if you didn't mind being stabbed to death with a dinner knife.

They hadn't spoken beyond a curt greeting and ordering the food. "I'm sorry." He wasn't, but Romano's outburst had attracted the attention of their government minders. His boss would be disappointed if he couldn't even get Romano to stay for dessert.

Germany sipped on his wine. Romano had ordered their meals. He had refused to so much as touch the menu, muttering darkly about the evils of English food, and snapped at the waiter to bring them the specialty of the house without checking what it was. At least his choice in wine was excellent.

What were you supposed to talk about on a date again? Germany had been on a single date in his life, that Valentine's Day misunderstanding back in the 40s. Italy and he could laugh about it by now, but it had cured him of dates. He had read several manuals to prepare for this date, both France and Italy had lavished him with advice that ranged from disturbing to vaguely helpful. This didn't strike Germany as the appropriate moment to tell Romano he had beautiful eyes, nor to inquire how he felt about leather thongs.

"I found the new strategy paper on stimulating private sector investment in the eurozone an enlightening read."

Romano shot him a vile glare. "Don't talk to me, potato bastard!"

With a disgruntled sigh, Germany went back to eating.

Dessert would have been delicious, if not for the company. Not even Romano could find a genuine reason to complain, though it didn't stop him from making up several complaints on the spot.

"You wish you were here with Veneziano." Romano's voice was a low, vile hiss. He wielded the spoon like a weapon.

Germany gripped his spoon like a lifeline. "Italy isn't…" He fell silent and blushed under Romano's glare, which had just turned ten times more venomous. He wasn't supposed to call Italy Italy anymore. In order for the PR coup to work, they had to drive home the point that South Italy personified the nation as much as North Italy did.

"You aren't even trying!"

"I apologize." He meant it this time. He stirred listlessly in his dessert, his appetite had been ruined. "It is pointless to debate. Closer relations with Veneziano wouldn't convey the right message."

"Because everyone thinks you've been screwing my brother since the 40s," Romano sneered.

Germany pretended not to have heard him, but Romano had summarized the problem effectively in his own vulgar way. When Germany suggested it, his boss had said that he was already so close to Italy Veneziano that any closer ties would be interpreted as a personal rather than a political rapprochement. She had looked very uncomfortable discussing the topic. She had hemmed and hawed for nearly a minute before she settled on the term rapprochement.

"Know what?" Romano stabbed the spoon into his half-eaten trifle and stood up.

Their chaperones broke out into anxious whispers.

"I'm done with this crap. I'm going to find a bar and get smashed." He didn't exactly wait for Germany, but there was a moment of hesitation and a quick glance. Just like when Italy was hesitant to ask something of Germany since he expected a refusal and didn't want to hear it. Germany had no illusions that Romano desired his company, but it sufficed that he was still willing to honor the spirit, if not the letter of their unspoken agreement.

Romano walked at a brisk pace when he was angry. Germany had no problems keeping up, just problems figuring out if he wanted to keep up at all.

He was likely to lose the thin veneer of civility when he was drunk and Germany had no desire to deal with his temper. On the other hand, Germany had every desire in the world to get drunk. If he got drunk in Romano's company, he wouldn't have skirted his duties at least, even though he had ultimately failed his task.

They found a bar that served both Italian wine and German beer of good quality, blessed be Eurocentric Brussels.

Romano growled only minimally when Germany joined him in the booth he had claimed for himself. He had chosen well, the booth was in a dark and secluded corner; their minders would neither be able to eavesdrop nor watch them without drawing attention to themselves. Of course, Germany thought wryly, he might have chosen this booth so he could finally get on with his plan to stab him with a dinner knife.

An hour later, Germany learnt that he wasn't in danger of being stabbed.

Romano hadn't stolen the silverware. He had stolen the napkins.

There was something almost endearing about the embarrassed manner in which Romano pulled the cream-colored linen napkin out of his suit coat's pocket and threw it at Germany with a token grumble.

Germany wiped the spilt beer off his jacket. He was a bit too drunk to lecture him on moral behavior. He just pushed the napkin back to Romano's side of the table when he was done and murmured awkwardly, "Thanks."

With a glower, Romano pushed the napkin back to Germany's side of the table. "Keep it. It's my… Veneziano said I'm supposed to bring flowers, but that's dumb. You're no chick!" His cheeks burned red and he hastened to throw back another glass of wine.

Germany regarded the napkin thoughtfully. "Thank you. A napkin is more useful than flowers."

Romano gave a disgusted snort. "God, you're an uptight prick even when you're half-drunk!"

Being half-drunk was no desirable state of mind. Therefore they progressed to schnaps and sambuca.

Afterwards, he couldn't pinpoint when the mood had shifted. Maybe the change had been too subtle to notice it, but if Germany was honest with himself, he had to admit that the alcohol was to blame for his fuzzy memories.

Romano got chatty at some point, which didn't equal him turning friendly. While he spent some quality time badmouthing each and every nation they knew, he found a way to intersperse at least every second sentence with an insult to Germany. You had to admire his persistence.

Just like with Prussia's lewd jokes, the entertainment value of Romano's scathing commentary rose with Germany's blood alcohol level. At some point, he had laughed along to the mocking of England's eyebrows and then he was suddenly admiring the sneering curve of Romano's lips. For the life of him, he couldn't reconstruct how he had progressed from the one to the other.

It might have had something to do with Romano giving him a hands-on demonstration of pickpocketing, which had ended with his hands lingering far longer in his pants than was strictly necessary. Romano's hands felt burning hot on his thighs through the thin fabric of his trouser pockets.

Romano's hands had long and graceful fingers, slightly clumsy from the alcohol but still more talented than Germany's would ever get. They bore calluses which you could only gain from long hours spent gripping a gun and burned even hotter on his thighs without a cloth barrier.

He remembered exactly how that had happened.

They had shared a cab back to their respective Brussels apartments and it had never occurred to Germany that he wouldn't be going home alone because this was still Romano and even drunk he was glaring and grumbling. He had been a bit too dazed to protest in time when Romano dragged him out of the cab at his place, still cursing up a blue stream about Germany being a too damn heavy macho potato and how he was going to leave him to freeze to death on the pavement if he couldn't walk on his own. He remembered distinctly that he had been awed by Romano's drunken eloquence.

So he had stood there to stare at the merrily shining backlights of his cab and following Romano home like a lost puppy had seemed like an awfully smart idea, really.

They had continued to drink, sambuca, limoncello and a bottle of tequila Italy had gotten from Mexico.

At some point, Romano had started to curse their bosses for doing this to them. Then he had grabbed Germany and kissed him with more teeth than tongue and he had snarled, "Dammit, if they're gonna make me their whore, I want to get a fuck out of it at least!" Once again, he had looked like he was about to cry, but Germany had been too drunk to recognize the signs… and too distracted by the hand that was more squeezing than fondling him through his pants.

Germany wasn't exactly experienced, but he wasn't a virgin, either. Prussia dragging him into a brothel when he was too plastered to care that he knew better had taken care of that. Yet it had been a very long time since he had last had any company but his own hand's, long enough that Romano's reasoning struck him as perfectly sensible. It was most certainly the alcohol speaking, but his scowl just made Romano all the lovelier.

He learnt how gentle Romano's hands could be after they had tugged and torn off his clothes. Several buttons and his tie fell victim to that tussle, as did Romano's shirt and oddly enough, his left sock. He was more upset over the sock than the shirt. "What the fuck is a single sock good for, you clumsy bastard?!"

Nevertheless, Romano's hands turned out to be gentle. It was an odd counterpoint to the way he had sex: In the same cantankerous, hostile manner in which he faced every aspect of his life. Like he was fighting a battle he was bound to lose.

Germany had never wondered what Romano might be like in bed, but Prussia speculated aloud about many things when he was drunk, most of them perverted. He was convinced that Romano would be all bark and no bite, just like he used to be in war in the bad old days of the Axis.

He had a vivid flashback to Prussia exclaiming that he would be "begging to get it up the ass" when Romano pinned him to the bed with a furious growl and a face that was truly just as red as a tomato. Figure that, Spain could be observant. "If you get your stupid potato dick anywhere near my ass, I'm going to rip it off, got it?!"

There was a chance of Romano merely trying to preserve his pride, like when he melted into his brother's hugs after some token resistance. For all that he was wiry and stronger than he looked, Germany had the advantage of being taller, stronger and heavier. Yet Germany had never been the kind of nation to enjoy games or daring gambles; he liked his world straightforward and taken at face value. He certainly wasn't going to start playing guessing games with sexual consent.

So he just grabbed Romano and silenced him with a kiss.

He might have fallen a little bit in love with the way Romano bristled in outrage before he took charge of the kiss, but that, also, was most certainly just the alcohol speaking.

Germany learnt that Romano's hands could be gentle even while his mouth was spitting insults and that when he ceased talking, he could bring you the closest to bliss you could get without actually sheathing yourself in him. He did wonder what it would feel like to sink in that body that was as tense as a coiled spring even in pleasure; Romano was even more uptight than him and that made it better, oddly enough. He didn't chide him for being on edge or told him to relax, which merely served to render Germany self-conscious and thus even tenser. But that was neither here nor there and Germany didn't try to change Romano's mind, even in his current state he felt uncomfortable with too much intimacy.

He learnt what that peculiar strand of hair of Romano's did when Romano closed his clumsy fingers around it and snapped, "Tug it! It's not like you haven't done it before! Are you too stupid to get me off when I actually want you to, dammit?"

When the realization sank in the next day and he realized how often he had pulled at the brothers' curls, he was mortified enough to die.

Romano was as loud in pleasure as in rage. Germany's recollection was hazy, but Romano's face when he came would forever be burned into his memory.

For all that this was the unapproachable half of Italy, Germany was still taken aback that he didn't want to cuddle. He curled up on the far side of the bed, hugging his brother's ridiculous smiley pillow.

In hindsight he could see that it had probably cost Romano every ounce of good grace he possessed not to kick a stark naked Germany out of his bed and his apartment.

to be continued...


	2. Don't throw grenades in confined spaces

**Chapter 2: You aren't supposed to throw grenades in confined spaces**

Germany awoke to a pounding headache.

He also awoke to a mouthful of hair that couldn't possibly be his own and the death grip of arms and legs intertwined with his own. Romano was tense even in sleep, yet later, much later, Germany would take some amusement from the discovery that he did, in fact, like to cuddle.

He spat the hair out and licked his chapped lips. He still had Romano's taste in his mouth.

There was no moment of disorientation; he never had those, not even when he awoke with a hangover in a hostile nation's bed. He knew exactly who he was, where he was and with whom.

He wished he didn't.

Nor did he wish to face the inevitable temper tantrum, so he tried his best to free himself of Romano's death grip without waking him. If he could slip out of bed and shower without Romano waking, they could pretend it had never happened.

It would be nice to preserve his dignity and preserve Romano's in the process as well. Regardless what the southern Italian believed, he didn't want to see him miserable, not least because Romano's misery made Italy miserable as well. He was almost certain that treating your best friend's sibling right after you spent the night with them was on the top ten list of "how to be a good best friend."

It was at that point that Germany took a moment to marvel at his own calm, though he concluded after a moment that it wasn't calm. All signs pointed to him being in a state of shock.

Freeing himself from Romano's embrace was an agonizing process. Every time he had nearly freed himself, Romano would stir, mumble and moan in displeasure and proceed to wrap himself around the comfortable source of body heat, starting the process from scratch.

By the time he had managed it, he was tempted to forego the shower, except he felt as sticky as the sheets looked and he couldn't imagine that other people wouldn't take one look at him and immediately know what he had done last night. That prospect was more terrifying than Romano's rage.

He collected the sad remains of his clothes and barricaded himself in the bathroom. In the stark light, he could observe the full extent of the havoc Romano had wreaked on him. From his bitten lips to the hickeys that covered not only his neck, but also the insides of his thighs, he looked like a mess. He had been too mortified to take a good look at Romano, but he doubted he was in any better state.

For the life of him, he couldn't say how he felt about that. He should have never gotten intoxicated with Romano. He frowned at his mirror image, displeased with his own ambiguity. It was Romano. There was no place for ambiguity, yet as he told himself that, Germany recalled his trembling hands as he tried to kill his slab of meat all over again and his red cheeks when he told him to keep the napkin.

Germany got out of the bathroom, dressed in his suit and feeling like himself again, even with a few buttons missing, only to be greeted by rapid-fire Italian snarling.

He tensed and it took him a humiliating moment to realize that Romano, who was stalking through his bedroom like a tightly coiled knot of fury, wasn't snarling at him. He was growling into his cell phone. In fact, he was so occupied with his call that he hadn't noticed Germany yet.

He assessed the situation for just one more moment and then he decided to take a leaf out of Italy's book and retreat. There was no way the morning after with South Italy could be anything less than disastrous. He had no desire to deal with histrionics.

Germany wasn't even halfway through the room when he halted. Good manners were important and he truly tried his best not to listen to the conversation, yet it was impossible not to snatch up pieces of the conversation. All the more so when he kept bracing himself for the moment Romano's fury might turn on him. He had studied Italian with the same perfectionist dedication he tackled every task with, but he wasn't the best at this speed and with Romano's speech patterns jumping erratically from one southern dialect to the other. Nevertheless he was certain that he hadn't misunderstood. Romano was talking about their bosses.

There was a minute wrangling between politeness and survival instinct. Survival instinct won out.

"A misunderstanding? What do you mean, a fucking misunderstanding?!"

There was a moment of icy silence as Romano listened to his conversation partner.

"Veneziano…" Romano's voice had gone very quiet and calm. It genuinely sent a shiver down Germany's back, Romano would have made the Godfather proud in that moment.

Warily, he turned his full attention on Romano, even going so far as to finally take a proper look at him. He cringed and averted his eyes before he returned them to Romano.

His hair was ruffled, he wore yesterday's pants and shirt, the latter unbuttoned. It did nothing to hide the marks of last night. Germany had been right in his assumption that Romano hadn't gotten off better than him. It didn't do anything to hide his trembling, either. "They wanted us to be friends." Romano's voice was still eerily calm. "Are you trying to tell me I…"

Italy would never learn what he was trying to tell Romano, for Germany chose that very moment to choke on his own spit.

Romano's head jerked around, eyes wide and startled. The phone fell out of his limp hand. He looked more vulnerable than Germany had ever seen him.

You could pinpoint the exact moment he regained his composure. His spine straightened as if it had been snapped back into place, his eyes narrowed. He was still trembling. "Get out!" Romano's voice sounded like a gunshot.

Germany raised a hand to nestle at his tie, only to remember too late that his tie had been ruined last night. He lowered the hand again and heaved a disgruntled sigh. "Romano, restrain yourself."

"Get out! Getoutgetoutgetout!"

A very confused and concerned, "Ve~?" came out of the phone.

He scowled and balled his hands to fists at his sides as he tried his best not to let himself be overwhelmed by the sheer surreality of the situation. "You're making yourself look ridiculous."

"I told you to get lost you fucking potato bastard!" Romano shrieked, actually shrieked, Germany would later marvel that his baritone voice could produce such a shrill sound at all. Then he picked up the phone and aimed.

Germany shot him a damning, cold glare, utterly disgusted with Romano for his emotional outburst and with himself for ever having felt any attraction to him at all.

He left without a look back and told himself that it was for the best.

to be continued...


End file.
